


In Paris with You

by onanotherworld



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: And then this happened, Angst with a Happy Ending, Here we go, M/M, You feel me?, i mean I wanted to write some fluff, this couple seems truly incapable of being happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:21:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They weren't quite sure how the argument started, but here they were, metaphorical hackles raised, circling each other like raging wolves.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Paris with You

**Author's Note:**

> Take this fic off my hands *backflips into the sun*

_Don’t talk to me of love. I've had an earful_  
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.  
I'm one of your talking wounded.  
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.  
But I'm in Paris with you  
By James Fenton

 

***

 

They were screaming at each other.

 

Again.

 

They had been arguing a lot lately, hurtful things flying like bullets from each mouth. Each time, they’d pasted over the cracks, their relationship tenuous, and close to snapping. They'd been growing apart for a while. Hurt can do that to a relationship.

 

The walls seemed like they shook, and the cat crept as silently as it could across the red carpet, trying not to draw attention to itself. Through the windowpanes, raindrops landed, creating a hazy, imperfect view of the street below, and the lamp on the street shone an ugly orange colour through it. Though, still you could see the Eiffel Tower dimly through the haze.The carpet itself was scuffed, shoes tossed haphazardly across it, a victim of an earlier part of their argument. The kitchen was a mess, dirty plates abandoned in the sink, remnants of food still on them, pots and pans lined the sideboards. The table was set, with a candle glimmering hopefully across it. All of this, perfectly together, was a stage set for a massacre.

 

They weren't quite sure how the argument started, but here they were, metaphorical hackles raised, circling each other like raging wolves. He was standing behind the blood-red sofa, gripping its back in a white knuckled grip, whole body in tense lines, blond ringlets falling across his red face, he was trying to keep his composure, and failing miserably. He had a bruised eye and a half-healed cut across his forehead marring the handsome lines of his face.

 

The other man was almost his opposite, leaning like he didn't care on a window sill, black curls being brushed harriedly out of his face, ice blue eyes trained on the blond man, holding his cigarette so tightly that it had almost split in the middle. His face was unmarked; but lined in anger.The only similarity between these two men at the moment was that they were both screaming at each other.

 

Their friends had gotten used to their almost constant arguments, and let them be, because they thought their arguments often didn’t carry much heat with them anymore. But, they had to notice the strain on their friends. 

 

The cat darted into the bedroom, fur on end. 

 

“What is wrong with you, Grantaire?” Seethed the blond man to the dark one. His grip on the back of the sofa tightened noticeably.

 

“Oh, what’s wrong with me? I'm not the one leading all of my friends to their deaths!” Growled the one called Grantaire, glaring across at the blond man. 

 

“I'm not leading them to their deaths! People are beginning to listen to us, not fight us!” Was snarled back, and an nearly audible snap from the back of the sofa was heard, but it didn't break the two men out of their argument. 

 

“Yeah,” sneered Grantaire, “ _listen._ Sure, they would listen to rich white boys barely out of their cradle protesting for the end to poverty, when they've known none of it themselves!” He took a long drag off his cigarette, spilling smoke out of the partially open window by his side. He shot a quick glance out of the window before returning his gaze. A woman in a long dark coat was hurrying down the street in the driving rain, in the opposite direction of the flat. Aside from her, the road was deserted, not a car or even a stray dog.

 

“At least I try to understand them and help them and not ignore them like the rest of the people from a rich background!” Was barked from the sofa.

 

“Sure.” Said Grantaire sarcastically. “Like they’re ever going to listen to your childish ’revolution’ Enjolras, for them, it's another rich kid trying to gain brownie points in the world.”

 

“At least I believe I can do something, and try to change the injustices in this world, rather than sit around swathed in apathy and drink fumes.” Said Enjolras nastily, with a sneer curving the side of his pretty mouth. He stood straight and stared at Grantaire, with arms folded. Grantaire stared right back, but he was slightly intimidated and very hurt. He thought Enjolras was over his drinking, or at least didn’t think it was a major part of his personality anymore.

 

“At least,” Grantaire bit back, “I have a sense of realism, rather than stupidly optimistic hopes for a world that will _never_ exist.” The cigarette between his paint-stained fingers snapped, he broke eye contact to shove it out of the window to the street below.

 

“But people are _listening,”_ snarled Enjolras, thumping his fist on the back of the sofa, loud in the tense silence. The air was charged; inside this small apartment, it seemed like this argument was a clash of gods. 

 

“Yeah, and look where listening got you!” Grantaire gestured to Enjolras’ black eye and cut forehead. “Knocked out! This is what _listening_ gets you,”

 

Enjolras opened his mouth to interrupt, but Grantaire steamrolled over him.

 

“This shows you that the police are brutal, the government corrupt, and people are always violent! This shows that however many protests you hold, _things will never change._ How many revolutions have been held? How many protests staged? And yet, you are still here, protesting about these injustices, even after all those, there is still corruption and still bigotry and still greed. This shows that things will _never_ change!” Grantaire’s eyes burned into Enjolras’.

 

Enjolras was struck dumb by this fit of eloquence that his boyfriend was often prone to. He was unspeakably angry and hurt and confused. They were having a nice meal and then... And then _this._ Grantaire lit another cigarette and broke eye contact. But all the same, he was never a man to take such a hit to his beliefs and not retaliate. His best friend often said that he could be unnecessarily harsh most of the time, especially with Grantaire. 

 

“Grantaire,” said Enjolras, quietly, venomously, “you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.”

 

Grantaire’s mouth hung open, and the blue eyes that were framed nicely by thick black eyelashes were wide and huge. What ever he had been expecting as a rebuke from Enjolras, this harsh estimation of his character obviously wasn't it. 

 

Equally quietly, but with a dangerous calm about the words, “Then why are you in a relationship with me?” Replied Grantaire, his stare intense. His hand was fisted around a lighter, a pack of cigarettes in his other.

 

“Honestly,” spat Enjolras, “I don't know.” He was still fired up, anger pulsing through his veins, he felt alight. 

 

Grantaire’s eyes were suspiciously glassy, and he dropped his head to his chest, threw up his hands in evident distress, and said brokenly, “Then I'm done here.”

 

Walking slowly to the table, he gathered up his things and collected his shoes from where they were scattered on the floor. The cat tip-toed timidly out of the bedroom, and mewed softly. Grantaire tried to smile at it, but he couldn't. Enjolras watched this process with rapidly decreasing levels of anger. What had he done? He didn't want to break up with Grantaire. He'd ruined it, completely and utterly.

 

While Enjolras was frozen with shock, Grantaire shoved his shoes on, pulled his hood up and carefully opened the door, slipped out, and closed it again.

 

It took Enjolras a couple of minutes to move away from his position at the back of the sofa. He dropped on to it, winding his hair tightly about his hands. He felt desolate. “Stupid, stupid bastard.” He muttered to himself.

 

***

 

Outside, Grantaire tried to hold back the tears that were threatening at the corner of his eyes. He walked in a stupor of depression and want of drink and soul-biting sadness. He looked up at Enjolras’ window, half-heartedly hoping that he'd see Enjolras staring down at him, begging him to come back. 

 

Enjolras wasn't there.

 

Grantaire turned away with a mangled sound of despair, tears turning his vision blurry. The wind was cold for a spring night, and the rain was almost frozen, the cold scalding. The wind whistled through the deserted road, street lights illuminating his way to the nearest bar with a dirty, nasty light. 

 

Tilting his head upwards as he walked, trying desperately not to think, to discourage the tears that threatened to fall. “Stupid, stupid bastard.” Muttered Grantaire. He'd fucked up badly. He'd ruined it, completely and utterly. 

 

He felt as if he'd walked for miles, with the wind and the almost- hail and the horrible lights, when a call came from a dark alleyway on his right.

 

Jerking his head instinctively towards the noise, he was immediately on alert. A figure moved out of the shadows and in to the light. It was the same woman in the long dark coat that Grantaire had seen hurrying down the road. She was tall, taller than him, with a curvaceous body, and long blonde hair that dripped down her back. She leant against the wall, and gave him a very obvious once over. Standing like a deer in a set of headlights, Grantaire thought about how much she looked like Enjolras. He was on the verge of crying again. Even as he blinked back tears for the third time tonight, he had to admit that she was very beautiful.

 

“Well, big boy,” she purred. Grantaire’s heart ached. “What do you love?” She slinked towards Grantaire in a predatory fashion.

 

Forcing down slight panic, Grantaire returned to his normal, lounging position, hands in his pockets. He barked a bleak laugh. “Don't talk to me of love, I've had an earful.”

 

“Well then, what do you what to talk about?” She raised a eyebrow flirtatiously. Her hands ran down her sides. 

 

Grantaire was tempted. She looked so like Enjolras, after all. And, they’ve just broken up, so all bets are off. It's back to his pining days again and sleeping with women and men who look like Enjolras.

 

He took a step closer and gave her the obvious once over she gave him. “Well,” pitching his voice lower to attract her attention. A unbidden thought of Enjolras came to his mind, breaking his attention from this potential lay. Looking away from her expectant eyes, he turned away and stumbled off, mumbled in an undertone, “Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras.” Swiping at his eyes, he cursed himself. He didn't even have the excuse of being drunk to blame on this bout of patheticness. He wandered off in search of a bar to amend his sobriety.

 

***

 

Meanwhile, back in the flat, Enjolras was crying. Not sobbing, or shuddery breaths, just letting the tears run down his face with a blank expression. This, in its own way, was worse. 

 

He felt something he'd never felt before in his life: apathy. What was the use of changing the world when there was no-one to change it for?

 

Stirring himself, he reached for his phone, and the balm to his wounds as of now and someone to talk to as he nursed them, he tapped the screen and dialled the number of the person who goes by the name of Combeferre. 

 

“Hello? Enjolras?” He said through the phone.

 

“I've fucked up,” said Enjolras, finally beginning to break down.

 

***

 

In a bar called the Corinthe, several minutes later, Grantaire downed his fourth shot in under five minutes. He hissed through his teeth as the strong alcohol burned the back of his throat. He downed another one, and the back of his throat began to numb. 

 

“More shots,” he said huskily to the barman, who raised his eyebrows, not dissimilarly to the way the blonde woman did. The barman gave Grantaire the shots. 

 

Somewhere around the eighth, the music became dizzying, and the heat from the compacted bodies dancing on the dance floor almost overwhelming. He drunk another two. The bar was warm beneath his head and hands, and there was drops of unidentifiable liquid on it. 

 

Alarmed by his drinking, the barman said, “That’s enough for you,” 

 

“Wha?” Said Grantaire intelligently, almost falling off the barstool, his world was spinning rather erratically. 

 

“I said: that’s enough. I won't serve you.” Repeated the barman firmly. He swept away to deal with other customers. 

 

Indignant, but very drunk, Grantaire staggered off the stool and into the toilets. They were disgusting- piss all over the floor, vomit on the floor, nasty smells, and the ceiling was cracked. A faint banging was coming from the other side of the wall. Collapsing to the floor, Grantaire couldn't hold back his tears anymore. 

 

He began to sob, curling in on himself, feeling something akin to a black hole opening itself up beneath his rib cage, it close to consuming him.

 

Grantaire didn't know how long he remained there, on the floor of those shitty toilets, but eventually he had no more tears to shed. He got up, dry eyed and empty. The toilet door creaked as he opened it, and the noise and heat of the main club almost stripped him of his senses. He felt far more sober than a short time ago.

 

Shoving awkwardly though the dancing crowd, he made his way to the club entrance and left. The wind and the rain had stopped in the time he was in the club. He went to a liquor store that was still open. Buying his alcohol, he meandered, not really focusing on where he was going, or what his future might hold without Enjolras. When he came slightly back to his awareness, he was in a park, animals making their soft night noises around him. It was a far cry from the flat or from the loud club. He sat on a bench, tipping his head to the sky.

 

The light pollution blocked the moon, and in his drunken state, Grantaire muttered, “How right Artemis is vanished when her brother Apollo turns aside.” He was, of course, talking about Enjolras.

 

“And yet,” continued Grantaire, head spinning, “I'm trapped here even when you turn away, dear Apollo. I'm a hostage, I'm maroonded.” He chuckled softly at his own misstep of the tongue and then laughed once hysterically.

 

***

 

Enjolras was frantic. He'd searched every bar in Paris it seemed, and in not one, was Grantaire in.

 

Combeferre had urged him to give Grantaire some time, but he simply _couldn't._ Just thinking about Grantaire being with someone else made him sick to his stomach.

 

Distraught and angry about how little people cared, he strode from one side of the city to the other, eventually ending up in a park. A dissonant crackle of laughter drew his attention. Across a grassy area, lay a figure crumpled on a bench. A lightning rod of energy rejuvenated his tired body. Springing into a run, he sprinted across the grass towards the figure.

 

The man had dark curls, and his eyes were closed in drunken sleep, by the smell hanging around him. Looking closely, Enjolras could have jumped for joy when he saw it was Grantaire. 

 

“Grantaire,” he said softly, shaking the man in question’s shoulder, “wake up!”

 

“Wha’s goinon?” Grantaire returned to wakefulness slowly and his eyes widened him surprise at seeing Enjolras. Enjolras felt his heart crack a bit more. 

 

“Apollo? Wha you doin’ here?” Slurred the other man, reaching clumsily for Enjolras and gripped his arm.

 

“I'm here to take you home, Grantaire.” Replied Enjolras fondly, putting one hand over Grantaire’s and sweeping a dark curl out of his eye with another. 

 

“Am I dead?” He asked, obviously not believing Enjolras.

 

His heart broke. “No, no your not, Grantaire, no, you're not.” He said, curling his arms protectively around the stricken man, bench chilled beneath his warmth. 

 

“But you sai’ you didn't wanna be with me,” issued plaintively from Grantaire’s mouth, from somewhere near the juncture of Enjolras’ neck and shoulders.

 

“I was lying, I'm so, so unspeakably sorry.” 

 

“’kay.” Grantaire’s eyes slipped closed again. 

 

Enjolras decided that it was time to move. “C’mon, R, up you get,” he hefted Grantaire up, holding him up with an arm about his waist. 

 

“Hmmm.” Sighed Grantaire against his neck, as they made slow progress to the edge of the park, Enjolras dumping the rest of the liquor in the bin, and then to a busy road. Hailing a taxi took longer than expected, and Grantaire was murmuring nonsense against his neck and shoulder. His arms were beginning to ache.

 

A taxi stopped, and Enjolras manoeuvred Grantaire gratefully into it. Sliding into the back of the taxi, he rattled off his address, and when the cabbie looked uncertainly at Grantaire sleeping fitfully against Enjolras’ side, with his arm about his shoulders, and the drink fumes coming off him in waves, Enjolras fixed the cabbie with his most imposing glare. The driver hurriedly drove. 

 

Staring down at Grantaire, it was impossible not to ruminate on what he almost lost, what he could still lose, in fact, Enjolras wouldn't be surprised if Grantaire walked out after all of the things he said. Of course, he was hurt too, and Grantaire had made mistakes, but he was willing to forgive. However, Grantaire might not, and who was blaming him? Enjolras certainly couldn't. 

 

The humming of the engine was soothing, Grantaire was warm at his side and even with those dark thoughts on his head, Enjolras was lulled into a pleasant sort of half-sleep for the remainder of the drive.

 

He was brought back by the taxi stopping, and the driver demanding his fee. Paying him, Enjolras gently pulled Grantaire out of the car, and tightened his hold as the engine of the taxi roared off into the night. Breath clouding from their mouths, Enjolras half-walked, half-dragged them into the block.

 

Stopping in the foyer for a moment to catch his breath, he saw a crack in the ceiling, and a wall was peeling at the corner. It was barely warmer in here that's outside, and Grantaire’s hands felt like ice. Moving them to the lift, he jammed his finger on the button for his floor and then proceeded to rub Grantaire’s hands between his own. Just a sliver of blue was visible between his eyelids, and he was evidently struggling to stay wake and support some of his weight. 

 

“Only a little while to go, R, stay awake until then, and then you can sleep.” Said Enjolras encouragingly. Grantaire nodded sleepily, and his eyes almost dropped entirely closed before he forced them open again. 

 

The lift doors opened with a _ding,_ and they slid into it. Leaning against a wall, Enjolras settled Grantaire on to his chest, one hand absently combing through the dark curls, his own tiredness from trekking around the city in search of Grantaire beginning to catch up with him. Cheesy classical music echoed from a tiny speaker somewhere in the lift.

 

The doors clunked open with another _ding,_ and Enjolras towed Grantaire down the creaky corridor, feet scuffing against the much abused carpet. Looking quickly back at Grantaire, Enjolras saw that he was now almost completely asleep standing. He smiled at the other man, and saw Grantaire try and copy his movement. Warmth unfurled suddenly in Enjolras’ chest, and he wanted, no, needed, Grantaire to be his, forever. 

 

Swivelling back to his door, Enjolras fumbled with his keys, inserting them into the lock clumsily. Pushing his shoulder into the door, he pulled them into the flat, and flicked on the lights, which jerked on after flashing two or three times. 

 

Sitting Grantaire on to the red, comfy sofa, the very one which Enjolras had been gripping earlier that same night. 

 

“Hhmmm?” Grumbled Grantaire, falling gracelessly on to the sofa.

 

“I'm just taking your hoodie off, R, don't worry yourself.” Smoothing his hand over Grantaire’s hair, he did just that, hanging it up on the hook on the front door. 

 

When he returned, Grantaire was sprawled across the sofa, breathing heavy, almost snoring, and unmistakably asleep. Smiling fondly down at him, he shook Grantaire awake once more, “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” Whispered Enjolras. 

 

Grumbling all the way, Enjolras finally got them both to the bed, Grantaire collapsing fully clothed and he began to snore immediately. Shaking his head and smiling again, he decided it wasn't worth waking him to take his clothes off, Enjolras removed Grantaire’s shoes carefully, and delicately placed them by the door, which he shut quietly. He also pulled the covers over the sleeping man. He stripped down to his briefs, ready for bed. 

 

As he slid between the covers with Grantaire, he seemed to wake, and also seemed to be continuing a dream or an earlier conversation, and clung to Enjolras’ side, mumbling, “But I'm in Paris with you.” 

 

“Shh, R, sleep,” said Enjolras and kissed the other man’s forehead gently, and wrapped his arms around the half- asleep man. 

 

“M’kay.” Replied Grantaire sleepily, snuggling closer. 

 

They had a lot to fix, and a lot to learn about each other, but all of that could be dealt with tomorrow. For now, they could sleep, together. Enjolras thought these thoughts drowsily. 

 

They both fell asleep, warm and safe, with a crack in the ceiling, peeling walls, rain beginning to splatter against the small window in the bedroom, where the Eiffel Tower was lit as bright as the noonday sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. Wow I'm socially awkward even over the internet. Well there's a feat
> 
> Will sell soul for feedback and kudos by the way, THANKS FOR READING MY SPECIAL SNOWFLAKES


End file.
